


Splinterd Cup

by SanguisetVulneraAstra



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-09
Updated: 2014-09-09
Packaged: 2018-02-16 17:19:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,026
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2278164
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SanguisetVulneraAstra/pseuds/SanguisetVulneraAstra
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The first splinter of shock is sudden, jagged, irrefutable, cutting through him like so much ice being cracked...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Splinterd Cup

The first splinter of shock is sudden, jagged, irrefutable, cutting through him like so much ice being cracked; it is breathtaking, and he finds that he can barely manage the slight inhalation to fill his lungs before the crushing onslaught of repercussion snuffs out the smoulder in his gut. 

Abigail’s eyes are cut glass, wavering, squinting, but he knows the conveyance, understands the tremble of her lips, the soft flesh of her chin crumpling like so many petals in a callous hand. He tries to grasp at the fleeting remnants of betrayal, of the anger and the hatred and the _hurt_ , but he is overcome with such a wave of weariness that he is drowning.

He shuts his eyes against the anguish.

“You were supposed to _leave_ ,” is a wear-worn exhale, exuding the resignation that is consuming Will completely, tinged with underlying moisture.

The words echo hollowly, leaving a bereft sort of calm that fills his head, clogging his throat where the air squeezes out, along with whatever strength he might have had. He wants to lay himself upon the floor and seep into the granules of wood, to be forever trodden upon in the one place Hannibal seemed happiest. When he turns, he sees Hannibal’s face from several different moments, all of them retracting harshly into the present one that looms before him, veiled in shadow, marred –no, Will thinks, accentuated, with blood. Turning into dust. 

“We couldn’t leave without you.”

To have your cake and eat it too, that was the saying, Will thinks, belatedly, hollowly, the thought some far off whisper of sand across pebbles. It rakes through the back of his head, clotting up his brain, bruising the bundle of grey. It had been so simple; give Jack what he wanted, but leave Hannibal free –if Hannibal had just left, if he had just proven his guilt by his mere absence, then everything could have been…

_You were supposed to leave._

It resounds endlessly in his head, over and over, on and on into a darkening spiral as his throat stings with the pressure of distortion, muscles cramping, spasms that sink into his gut where his heart thuds in sluggish turmoil. _I want it all, I wanted it all. Just…_

He thinks he never really knew exactly what he was doing; it seems so stark now, that all he’d managed to accomplish is a haphazard trajectory, following a loosely implied intention to both parties, not quite committed to either, or, maybe, committed entirely to both, and only at the mere impulse of desires and intensities never analyzed, had brought him here, to this moment, where he had no want of; he had, in some depth of his mind, decided to die before Hannibal was taken into custody, either by Hannibal's own hand or by some slanted mishap of his own making. That was what was supposed to happen, he was supposed to be the only one to get hurt...or else, maybe, not at all -that he had been intent on walking into an empty house or, maybe, just Hannibal, standing in the foyer, awaiting his arrival so they could slip off into the night. Together. Would he have done that? 

_I…_

The hand on his face is warm, pulsing, damp with sweat and carmine that seeps into his pores, penetrating him, tugging out the barest of his vulnerabilities. _Oh don’t_ , is slow and tenuous, the thought falling apart, a shard of glass that skitters across the floor at his feet. His jaw is unhinged, muscles slacking, body submitting to some contorted notion of shock.

_I would._

And then the pain is searing, through him, in him, and all Will can feel is Hannibal’s body pressed against him, and the sharp taste of blood in his mouth, coppery, the pain a tangible thing that splutters ice through his veins with the rough gouging of the blade through his gut, biting into his flesh and parting it, an out pour of blood surging forward; it alights his senses, bolts of electricity becoming his nerves, singing their anguish, surging with feral rage into his brain. His mouth opens and guttural sounds of visceral desecration mar the air, even as his lips muffle against Hannibal’s shoulders. His hand grabs fitfully there, clutching in convulsing jerks as his body wracks with the pain. He can discern, vaguely, the familiarity of the scent, wrapped in the blood. 

When he collapses, there is no peaceful decent into darkness, no abrupt cut-out of consciousness. His eyes continue to perceive, and through gritted teeth and stuttered breath, he manages “Didn't I?” voice hinging on the indignation because to be denied that ounce of truth would be too much. I did, he repeats in his head, harsh and biting as Hannibal falters over that rebuke of accusation. _I wanted you_. I did, he thinks, while his blood seeps warm and thick through his fingers, pressing in futility against bared flesh, smooth pink of exposed organs clotting against his shirt. _I do_

Around another stutter of teeth clamping tightly together, Will chokes out, "I already did," to the notion of change, and Hannibal eyes him in silence, unrelenting, but Will thinks maybe he glimpses an edge of something like understanding or regret.

Maybe Hannibal will kill him, maybe he’ll stop staring, and just pick him up and drag him off into the night to whatever end. Or else just stand there, in this moment, stretched out into infinity while Will slow bleeds into death and the lights that flash red and blue spill in through the windows and everything comes to a law and order end. But instead, Will ends up uttering ‘no’ over and over, pleading, aching, beyond overwhelmed, beyond anything, and all he can do is crawl and whimper and grab at Abigail’s throat, because it is over, all of it, everything, because nothing matters and Hannibal is walking out of the room and leaving him behind, again, in a ruin, and Will is wreckage, nothing more, nothing less, and nothing really matters anymore.

Except. 

I forgive you.

And the dark, dying beast heaving its last breath, going into stillness.

**Author's Note:**

> a take on Will Graham's perspective, motives, intentions, and thoughts in the NBC series Hannibal season 2 finale


End file.
